


Borrowed Time

by Elbeeinthewild



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Implied Relationships, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 11:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16743259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elbeeinthewild/pseuds/Elbeeinthewild
Summary: There's the idea of the little deaths we suffer in the course of our lives; metaphors for something so painful, yet impermanent. Then there's the real thing. No happy ending here, folks. One shot.Five Prompts Challenge - November





	Borrowed Time

**Author's Note:**

> AU; yet another dip into my deep well of hell, hate, and discontent when it comes to S13. Tragedy, Angst. Implied G/D slash.
> 
> I never thought this kind of story would be something I’d ever be inspired to do. My beta has a rather gleeful fascination with them and thinks every writer should do one. Apparently the muse listened to her, and not me. This story is for her, with my thanks for helping me see that going outside my comfort zone isn’t a bad thing.
> 
> Beta'd; any remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

They'd been standing here awhile, and suddenly McGee was overwhelmed with the need to break the heavy silence. He spoke softly, partly in deference to their surroundings. He also didn't want the others waiting some yards behind them to hear; to know the terrible truth behind recent events. "This didn't have to happen," he said. "It shouldn't have come to this."

His companion said nothing, but McGee caught the minute flinch as they continued to looked down at the matching stones, only the names and dates distinguishing them from one another. _Good_ , he thought. He hoped that had hurt. They were _all_ hurting, but ultimately, it was only one of them who'd tipped a precarious balance the wrong way. He could see it so easily in hindsight now, and how it put the events in motion that brought them all here. He kept tight control over his anger; there would be a time and place for it, but it wasn't here and now.

"You _know_ that, don't you?" McGee pressed.

~A few weeks earlier~

Tony sat on his couch, surrounded by boxes that had gone unpacked for months now. Most were still where they'd been placed originally, in disorderly stacks around his apartment. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that his things were likely tossed inside as haphazardly as the boxes had been dumped on the dusty apartment floor. He couldn't bring himself to open those boxes and find it was true; that his things had been thrown inside with the same callous disregard as he himself had been subjected to.

Best not to go there now, he thought, while sipping morosely at his scotch. He welcomed the burn as the liquid made its way down his throat into his belly, but briefly wished he were on call this weekend so he had a reason to stop drinking. It had been a long time since he'd crawled into a bottle, taking comfort in its false warmth. He knew all too well it was a poor substitute for the kind that once came from the care and affection of another; he just didn't give a damn any more.

It ate at him, this limbo he found himself in, but he couldn't seem to shake it this time. There were a lot of moments over the past two decades that made him feel dead in some way. He'd faced all manner of death; the prospect of his own, people he cared about, victims of crimes. You can't work in law enforcement for any length of time without coming up against situations like that. It was how you reacted when you hit those walls that determined what you were made of. He'd always been the resilient one, made of stronger stuff…until now. Now, he was well on his way to 'dead drunk', he thought with a harsh laugh.

He'd found over the years that there were many ways to be 'dead'. They had nothing to do with the end of a life, but rather the things made you feel dead _inside_. Each one a blow to some part of his psyche, that had to be compartmentalized and shoved away where it couldn't hurt, and replaced with something that allowed him to go on. His memory obligingly provided a kaleidoscope of images; snatches of cutting words. He squeezed his eyes shut against them, but they came anyway.

The first, when he was very young. Hours after his mother's funeral, finding his father falling down drunk and wishing Tony had died instead of her. Learning Danny was a dirty cop. Cleaning Kate's blood and brain matter off his face.

Jeanne in the elevator. _"I wish I'd never met you."_

Jenny's death and being sent away with the certainty that Vance wasn't the only one that blamed him. That for a short time, Gibbs did too.

Later, sitting with Dana and holding her hand as she succumbed to lethal poison. That bright light he'd known so briefly, extinguished because of someone else's greed.

Turning in his badge, giving up a job he loved to protect Gibbs; to ensure _he_ could continue to do his. Loyalty drove the others to do it, but it wasn't just loyalty that drove _him._ It stung that Gibbs never acknowledged, much less thanked anyone on the team for their selfless act. As if he were entitled to it; _owed it_. And another little piece of him had died. Love drove his actions, not that the others had any inkling. And he was fine with that at first; them not knowing. Now, it just served to isolate him even further.

Looking back, he wondered if that incident wasn't a sign that Gibbs was never fully invested in their relationship. Then Gibbs had come back from from the secret mission he'd been forced into to save his career, and he'd just been so damn glad to see Gibbs home and safe. And things had been good afterward; idyllic, in fact, so he'd let it go. The relationship part had still been fairly new then. They'd finally stopped the years of denial and dancing around one another after the bombing at NCIS.

He couldn't hide the relief on his face at seeing Gibbs alive as he was pulled from the heavily damaged elevator. He'd walked toward Gibbs as if no one else were there, and just drinking in the sight of him. The last he knew, Gibbs was running toward the bomb, instead of away. He remembered reaching out hesitantly and placing a hand on Gibbs' shoulder, as if to be sure he wasn't seeing things. To his utter shock, Gibb's normally stoic features were open and expressive in a way he'd never seen. Everything he felt inside; gratitude, relief, love, and affection was reflected back at him from those mesmerizing blue eyes as Gibbs reached up, laid a hand over his and squeezed.

They had their rough patches, but life with Gibbs had been pretty amazing until The Calling case. It had changed things between them. He came home from Shanghai to a complete stranger. Worse, to find his things gone from the house; moved back to his apartment with no explanation, just a terse "it's over".

From that point on, Gibbs presented a thin veneer of civility that hid the depth of his animosity from the others, but that was on the good days. On the bad days, Gibbs' simmering resentment bubbled to the surface and found its target; always _him_. All that made worse by Gibbs' determination to keep his silence on the matter, to let him go on wondering _why_. Gibbs blamed him for the shooting, what else could it be? Surely Gibbs knew he would have done anything to have stopped Luke, or given his life if it meant Gibbs were safe?

Apparently not.

Another piece of him shriveled and atrophied with every barb, every glare, every cold dismissal and still, he stayed. It was disconcerting, the power Gibbs still held over him, even as he kept him at arm's length. Unable to get closer, and unable to bring himself to leave. After months of it, there wasn't much left in him that felt in any way alive behind the defensive mask he showed the world. This last year felt like a long, slow slide closer to death.

He was a shell; the walking dead. Nothing so dramatic as those flesh-eating zombies from graphic novels, but the expression seemed appropriate just the same. Then again, even the walking dead could die if a blow was struck in the right place. He wondered if the blow had already been struck and his brain was just waiting for his body to catch on and get with the program. He chuckled again at his own dark humor as he took a too-large gulp of scotch. Yes, there many ways to be dead and still draw breath, but even a slow painful death couldn't go on indefinitely. He fingered the sturdy chain around his neck and wondered if the weight hanging from it wasn't getting too heavy.

Borrowed time often had a high price in the end. Maybe there was just enough left in him to make amends for not having Gibbs' six and whatever else he'd done to make the man despise him so much. To right the wrong he felt started in earnest that day in a dusty Iraq market. What if his father had been right all those years ago? It should have been him. Maybe he'd been cheating fate for a very long time. Maybe it was time to stop.

~.~.~.~.~.~

That drive for redemption was what led him to step into the path of disaster a few weeks later. A second chance to make a difference; to preempt fate for another… _for Gibbs_. A split second decision that was irreversible once made. He didn't even think about it, just reacted. It was instinct and in spite of everything Gibbs had said and done, still who he was at his core.

And what did that decision say about how screwed up his head was? That in these moments, as his heartbeat began to slow and a numbing coldness crept into his extremities, he felt he'd finally done something right. Gibbs had finally lost that inexplicable influence over him, and no attempt to impose his will would work now. And oh, did he _try_. That compelling voice pulled him back from the brink; from the darkness encroaching on his vision, but only briefly.

"You will not die; do you hear me?"

He tried to laugh, but it turned into a harsh cough and suddenly the metallic taste of blood was in his mouth.

"That's not gonna work this time, Jethro."

It was all too little, too late. The darkness crept in again and he felt no pain, only relief.

The long, slow slide was finally coming to an end.

~.~.~.~.~.~

~One week later~

Gibbs walked until he found what he was looking for. He recognized the group gathered a short distance away and despite their attempts to call him over to them, he ignored them and passed by without speaking. He didn't deserve their comfort and companionship, not when accusation would have been more appropriate. With the exception of McGee, they didn't know that.

The scene was peaceful and serene. Still, it did nothing to calm the turmoil in his mind, or the guilt and regret that warred for dominance in his heart. Gibbs ignored McGee as the other man stepped away from the group and joined him. He reached into his coat pocket, feeling the cool metal of the item he had placed there earlier. He absently turned it over and over in his pocket as he stood there staring at the two simple, yet elegant stones, one for a mother and one for a son.

"This didn't have to happen," McGee said. "It shouldn't have come to this."

He flinched at the hard tone, but said nothing. McGee had been there too and wasn't going to let it lie. He'd seen what Tony was wearing, and what he _wasn't_. He'd heard their exchange and it was pretty obvious he'd guessed the heartbreaking truth brought to light in Tony's last moments.

"You _know_ that, don't you?" McGee insisted. He'd seen Tony's sudden leap toward Gibbs, watched them fall as the shot echoed around them. He fired several times in the direction of the shot and then ran to help Gibbs pull Tony to cover. They'd torn away Tony's jacket and shirt in a panic, revealing an already alarming loss of blood. Gibbs shouted his denial.

_"No!"_

The horrified realization that Tony hadn't put his vest on when the rest of them had; it struck him like a blow and he'd frozen in shock.

McGee looked down at his chapped hands, sore and red from being compulsively scrubbed. His heart lurched hard in his chest as for a fleeting instant, he saw them covered with blood. He shoved his hands in his pockets, but it didn't help. He wasn't sure he'd ever be free of those images again. Blood had been everywhere, even soaking into the knees of his trousers where he knelt. His hands had joined Gibbs', trying desperately, futilely to stop the flow while the other man pleaded for Tony to live.

Two weeks ago, Gibbs would never have thought it possible to shatter someone so completely and leave no outward sign. But not only had he had done it, he'd _kept on doing it._ Tony's mask remained impeccable and he'd been selfishly oblivious to the damage he was doing. Until tragedy struck and it was far too late to undo what he'd done.

He'd landed the first blows almost as soon as Tony came home from Shanghai. Tony had slept in the office that first night back, putting in overtime with the rest of them as they wrapped the case. He didn't know what was coming, or why Gibbs was so distant. The others had gone and Tony stepped up to his desk, his confusion at Gibbs' behavior clear to see.

_"Do we need to talk, Boss?"_

_His cold, unfeeling reply sounded almost like it came from a stranger._

_"What would you like to talk about, DiNozzo?"_

_He turned away from the hurt look, got up and walked around Tony, leaving him standing alone in the bullpen. He'd gone home and by the time he'd changed, Tony was pulling into the driveway. He sat down on the couch, propped up his bad knee and waited._

_Tony came in and closed the door. "What's going on, Gibbs?"_

_Gibbs didn't answer. He saw the exact moment the absence of pictures, all his belongings registered. Tony went pale. "Jethro?" he questioned softly._

_"All your things are back in your apartment," Gibbs said, rising from the couch and carelessly tossing a key on the coffee table._

_Tony's eyes pricked as he watched the key he'd given Gibbs three years ago bounce off the table and land on the floor._

_"I don't understand. Why?"_

_Gibbs ruthlessly squelched his regret and latched on to the ever-present anger and resentment that seemed so close to the surface these days._

_"I don't need you," he said, knowing how deeply that would cut. He added the final blow._

_"It's over."_

_Gibbs turned away from the devastated man, and went to the basement, slamming the door behind him._

"Are you going to answer me?" McGee demanded, pulling him back to the present.

Gibbs closed his eyes. It seemed the accusation he was looking for was coming.

"What do you want from me, McGee?"

"No vest, Gibbs. All that time and we never knew he stopped wearing them. Why _was_ that?" McGee's voice was cold. "I heard what he said. 'Did it right this time…' You kicked him to the curb and let him think you blamed him for Iraq, didn't you?" McGee shook his head. "You, better than anyone, should have known what that would do to him."

"It was _my fault_ , is that what you want to hear?" Gibbs growled. He turned deliberately away from McGee and went back to studying Tony's headstone, lost in his memories until a new voice called out from behind him.

"Why are _you_ here?"

Gibbs started guiltily, turning to face the source of that angry, accusing voice. The face was achingly familiar underneath the stamp placed on it by the passage of time. He was the embodiment of a future that would never happen; one where his namesake would live to see his golden years.

"Do you know what you've done? Do you even _care_?" the voice accused again.

Oh, yes. He knew. He cared.

_The breath had been forced from his body by the impact; could still feel Tony's arms wrapped tightly around him as they fell. It was an echo of the intimate embraces they'd once shared; the touch both familiar and foreign at the same time, for the suddenness and violence of it. In that moment, he felt a flicker of irrational anger…and then the crack of rifle fire registered. Anger turned to ice cold fear in an instant._

_"No!"_

_Frantic movements…McGee screaming into his phone for an ambulance._

_Then they saw; and Gibbs feared there was no way help would come in time._

_Fear made him angry. "Where the hell is your vest!"_

_"Did it right this time…" came the barely audible whisper. "You're ok." Tony was fading fast, as he and McGee worked desperately to check the blood loss._

_Oh God. Tony blamed himself for what happened in Iraq. He'd known it on some level, and he never told Tony any different. All because he had to hide from the world, and especially Tony, just how badly he'd been traumatized by the shooting._

_"How could you think you owed me this? God, Tony…"_

_"…threw me out. said you didn't need me."_

_Gibbs pressed harder as Tony's eyes fluttered closed. "Tony, dammit…stay with me. I swear I didn't mean it; not any of it."_

The grief-stricken voice came again, halting the flashback.

"You have no right to be here…I don't _want_ you here."

"I never meant for this to happen," he said regretfully.

Senior shot him a hate-filled glare, and McGee stepped closer, ready to separate the two men. "You didn't mean it?" Senior shouted. "Is that supposed to make it better? My son is dead because of _you_! Nothing you could say or do will _ever_ be enough."

No, it wouldn't. Not for Senior and not for him. Tony's death had shaken him as surely and profoundly as Shannon's had. Perhaps even more so, because unlike Shannon, he had a direct hand in Tony's death.

_They knew Tony was barely hanging on. The beginnings of tears slipped from McGee's eyes unchecked as he clamped down even harder on the entry wound. One of Gibbs hands stayed on the exit wound while the other stole upward and tenderly cupped Tony's cheek. McGee grimaced at the bloody smear on Tony's face and listened intently as Gibbs tried to work a miracle by force of will alone._

_"Tony, listen," Gibbs said, patting gently and smiling as the green eyes blinked slowly open._

_He leaned close. "You will not die; do you hear me?"_

_Tony tried to laugh, but it turned into a wet-sounding cough and suddenly the metallic taste of blood was on his tongue._

_"That's not gonna work this time, Jethro," he whispered, lips lifted in a half-smirk. He coughed again and a thin stream of blood began to run from one corner of his mouth._

_Gibbs despaired as blood appeared on Tony's lips and teeth._

_"Please, Tony…" he choked out. His throat and chest tightened; the agony of impending loss was beginning to set in as Tony's labored breathing became ever more shallow._

_Tony gave a weak gasp and one hand reached for a chain at his neck, almost obscured by blood._

_"Jethro…take," Tony panted harshly and his hand fell back to his side as he lost the strength for even that small movement. Gibbs' hands left the wound and he gently removed the chain and clenched it tightly in his fist. McGee's jaw dropped as the item threaded onto it came into view from where it had fallen under Tony's shoulder._

_"Semper Fi, Jethro," Tony murmured, breathing erratically now._

_Gibbs' eyes burned as he leaned down and touched his lips to Tony's forehead, lingering there a long moment._

_"now…" came a breathy whisper against his cheek._

_Gibbs pulled back ever so slightly and met Tony's eyes; his own vision blurred by a film of tears. "Now, Tony?" he asked softly._

_"now…" Tony repeated, using his last breath to say the words. "it's over."_

The words kept reverberating in his head; the same words he'd so cruelly and carelessly thrown at Tony the day he'd kicked him out of his house and his life. He'd broken something in Tony with those words. He'd taken it for granted that Tony would always be there no matter how he was treated, and underestimated how far Tony would go to redeem himself in Gibbs' eyes. McGee was right; he should have known better.

In this last week, as he faced what remained of a life without Tony in it, he'd come to realize Tony had the power to break _him_ too. Always had.

"It should have been _you._ "

What could he say to that? It was true.

Gibbs understood the older man's need to vent his anger. He'd lost a wife and child too. Now he'd lost someone he loved again, for no other reason than foolish, stubborn pride. He nodded; his own grief and guilt tightening his throat and nearly taking his voice.

He managed a hoarse whisper. "Yes."

It was time to go. He reached into his pocket for the item he'd carried since that day, leaned down and looped it reverently over the flower vase affixed to Tony's headstone. He whispered the words that always seemed damn near impossible to say to those closest to him, words that might have made all the difference, had he managed to say them sooner. Now, he'd never know.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

He rose and as the shadow he cast moved with him away from the stone, the sun glinted softly off a dog tag hanging from a simple chain, both still stained rust with dried blood.

"I wish it _had_ been you," Senior shouted at his back, with an uncharacteristically cruel edge to his voice.

He froze at that.

"So do I."

~.~.~.~.~.~

 

AN: Whew. My first death story. I can't begin to tell you how surprised I am that this came out of my head. I'm a big fan of happy endings, so this is definitely a far cry from my usual fare. That said, I'm pretty pleased with the result. I'd love to hear from readers though, so you know what to do if you're so inclined... ;)

 

Also, for those wondering what the heck is up with my story in progress, "Chapter & Verse", there's a two-chapter update coming soon! 


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